


In starlit nights I saw you

by Hi0ctane



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Enjolras Has Feelings, Epistolary, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pre-Canon, Quarantined in the Countryside, The 1831 Influenza Pandemic, a lot of fluff, and they were ROOMMATES
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:42:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24023788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hi0ctane/pseuds/Hi0ctane
Summary: Les Amis d'ABC are forced to leave Paris for their own safety when another epidemic hits the city in mid-spring. Enjolras, due to lack of a safe house that would not endanger his family, has to room in with Grantaire on the latter’s countryside home, and writes about his situation to Courfeyrac and Combeferre. He expects torture, but not everything turns out the way he feared...[Or, an epistolary story, told from the position of Enjolras]
Relationships: Enjolras & Grantaire (Les Misérables), Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 68
Collections: Les Mis Big Bang: Quarantine Edition





	In starlit nights I saw you

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Les Mis Quarantine Big Bang of 2020; it's also the first piece I've written in a good while. My personal take on the "oh god they were roommates!"-trope, set in 1831. 
> 
> (if you're worried about the content/quarantine aspect of the story, please check the end notes beforehand!)
> 
> Big thanks to my lovely lovely beta, muse_in_absentia, who single-handedly saved my grammar. I owe you one!!

Sighing deeply, Enjolras set down his quill, frowning at the smudged stain of ink it left on the paper in front of him. Somewhere in the distance he heard the chime of the church bells, counting the time as he sat and wrote. His eyes returned to the paper in front of him, and he re-read his own lines slowly.

* * *

_Combeferre, Courfeyrac, my dear, dear friends,_

_This letter will find you with a heavy heart. Once you read this I will have reached the village in the countryside, far away from the busy and lived-in streets of Paris - a foreign place that, for all amounts of romanticism and beauty, feels stifling and empty to me already, and I have not yet seen much of it. The carriage ride had been hard and dreary, but I prevailed; you will be pleased to hear that I did not start a fight with my new roommate, however difficult it has been. Surely, I think he lives to oppose me._

_I surveyed my new home while Grantaire himself had stepped out to acquire food for the both of us. The house is dusty and lonely, a place that seems to be forgotten in time. No people have sat at this table in months, judging from the thick coat of dust I have found everywhere I moved. I dread to ask him what has to have befallen his family to leave a place such at this abandoned to the impassionate wheels of time. I dread his answer more._

_The house holds several rooms; there is but one bedroom, but he insists to sleep in the_ salon _and lets me have the bed to myself. To my endless surprise the library shelves all around the salon’s outer walls seem well-stocked; I only had the opportunity to look in passing, but the books appear to be sorted and many. I will see if they can help me pass the time until our departure. It cannot come soon enough; Paris needs us now more than ever. I will wait, of course, to not be caught up in the_ cordon sanitaire _, the lockdown of Paris, should it indeed occur, but it will be, and will remain to be, a trying time for me to pass._

 _There is a wine cellar in this house, which does not surprise me, but it lacks the stronger spirits Grantaire consumed in the Corinthe and Musain on a regular note. I feel he will soon get bored without his_ eau de vie _, and I am awaiting the day his boredom turns to anger with a strange kind of passive expectation. I will write you when his mood, undoubtedly, turns for the worse. Until then, think of me, and do not forget the ideals that are waiting for us back in Paris._

_I send you my love. Be healthy._

* * *

The first signs of the disease had come in early spring, before the trees had begun changing colours, before the people had been able to cast off their winter coats. By summer it had become worse than all the years before, and it brought not only peril and sickness in its way, but also fear, spreading like a wildfire. After council in the Musain Les Amis d’ABC had decided that the only sensible action was to leave the centre of Paris behind for the time being, to make sure that both their ideas – and themselves, really – were kept safe from harm. There were words of a lockdown of the city in the streets, nobody allowed in or allowed out: they all were aware that a state such as this would not only endanger them as people, but also the plan for the upcoming revolution.

Everyone boarded carriages as quickly as they could, in groups of ones and twos; their aim was the countryside, the old family homes all of them had tucked away in the safety of the vast nothingness of the French landscape outside of Paris.

Enjolras had expected to go home to his family in Chartres, passing the time writing letters and penning down plans of action for the week of his return to the Capital. But a discussion with Courfeyrac had made him think twice about it; who was he, really, to move into his family countryside home, and endanger their safety due to the hazardous nature of his own, private affairs? What if the National Guard followed him to the outskirts and used the opportunity to seize him, hurting all of them because of him and him alone? No, no, he couldn’t do it, couldn’t go no matter how much he wanted to. Courfeyrac, the good friend he was, had tried to help him, and they had thought left and right, considered the problem at hand. Ultimately, Enjolras had voiced his concerns to his friends at one of the last meetings before they were to leave for the outside world.

It had been Grantaire who had offered his hospitality first; Grantaire, who seemed to own a childhood home that according to him “nobody had been to for ages”, Grantaire who could be antagonistic and dangerous and downright filthy if he deemed the time right to behave like this. But he had bowed in front of Enjolras – if playful or ironic the leader of Les Amis would never know – and offered up his home in the Normandy, a days’ ride away from Paris on horseback or by carriage. Enjolras had considered denying him, had considered outright saying no and following one of his closer friends to their homes. Surely Combeferre had a room in his parent’s lodgings tucked away for him like he always had, or Prouvaire would house him like the true and gentle friend he really was?

But Enjolras hadn’t denied him. There was something about Grantaire’s eyes, in the strange blue-green echo of innocence that lingered in the depth of his expression, that compelled him to agree, even if only this once. He had said yes and asked when they were leaving, despite the surprised stares and shouts of all their friends. Grantaire assured him that their carriage would come up at dawn.

And so it was.

The shared ride had been tense. Enjolras had watched the landscape fly by; Grantaire had sketched in charcoal, only rarely addressing him in his calm and ironic lilt. Time had passed in a rush of green and brown and golds outside the window.

Enjolras, worn thin by the days of planning and schoolwork, fell asleep well before they arrived; the quick thud-thud-thud of hooves lulled him to a rest. He woke with a coat draped across his shoulders and a fuzzy feeling inside his mouth, and if he hated the day a little less after his extensive nap, well, nobody had to know but him.

The village they had arrived in was quiet, almost dreamy, and located just outside of Évreux. They passed the central market place, and Enjolras blinked at the playing children. Surely they had to have heard about the people’s suffering in Paris, the hunger and sickness spreading and endangering every mother and child? He was about to ask Grantaire about it, but the artist looked out of the window, and his wan face and pale mouth were split by a hint of gentle amusement. Enjolras had remained quiet, settling back into his cushions, drawing the coat a little tighter around himself.

The summer house of the Grantaires was overgrown with ivy, gleaming in rich, dark greens which curled around the stonemasonry. There was a garden, but it was unkempt – a small well that was boarded up surrounded by weeds and grass leaning sideways in the gentle breeze. The heavy door budged only when Grantaire pressed his shoulder into the wood. He groaned a little, but so did the stone as he pushed it open, ushering Enjolras and his sparse bag of clothing inside.

The first thing Enjolras had noticed was the dust – a thick coat of it, really, clinging to every surface vertical or horizontal, coating the entire house in a sheen of sickly grey. Enjolras made a face, but didn’t comment. A state of abandon like this wasn’t entirely unexpected after the way Grantaire had spoken about the house, but did already tell him a lot. Indeed, nobody had been here in long time, not Grantaire himself nor any kind of however-estranged family. Enjolras considered asking what had happened to them. He never did.

Grantaire headed inside nonetheless, his bag slung across his shoulder like a sailor’s just returning from months at sea. He seemed completely ignorant of the state of what had to be a childhood home; the frown on his face was only miniscule, eased into something like remembrance. He showed Enjolras to the bedroom that would be his, no questions asked, then set his own bag down in a sizeable salon that had a small cot tucked away in the corner. The salon had dark wooden panels and stuffy oil paintings, heavy curtains and the acerbic smell of paint that lingered in every nook and crease even after decades, and was entirely surrounded by bookshelves in between the canvases. All of the Grantaires had been painters through and through, Enjolras thought as he saw the frames set up on the high walls. He sighed quietly.  
  
Grantaire himself sat down on one of the couches, lighting a cigarette; he didn’t smile anymore. The smell of tobacco mingled with that of old oil paint, and he leaned back, stretching out on the old, dark chaise longue, looking like he belonged here and nowhere else in particular.

“It’s a good house,” Grantaire said, slowly letting out a plume of grey, pale smoke, his breath going slow and relaxed.

Enjolras couldn’t yet find it in himself to agree, but he let it pass without comment. There was a piano to his right, old and worn, but still operational from the look of it. He wondered if Grantaire could play.

Once more, he didn’t ask, and settled in for weeks in an unfamiliar home.

* * *

_My friends,_

_I am pleased to read that you, too, have found peaceful residence. Give my love to Combeferre’s mother; I am sure Mademoiselle Isabelle is pleased to have not only her only son by her side for the time being, but also his keen friend with his sunny disposition. I implore you, do not give her grief! She is a good woman, and she deserves the new world we are about to lead in as much as anyone._

_Me and Grantaire… we have not murdered one another in cold blood, if this is what you were about to ask in between your lines. Grantaire is, beyond my wildest imagination, a good host; I cannot complain. He brings cheese and bread to my bedside in the mornings and invigorates me with the smell of dark roasted coffee at noon, after we both retired to our studies to read and rest. He makes sure I eat and drink, and he never seems to run out of wine or water, no matter how long we stay into the night. He must have studied the art of accommodation in another time, or another life, what do I know. The fact remains, however, that Grantaire is cordial. He never lets me hunger or thirst, no matter what he focuses on for the moment._

_I also would like to inform you both that he, in fact, does know how to play the piano. I was surprised by this. He took my bitter words in stride, wearing a smile that looked a little too sharp to be genuine. I wonder if I hurt him. I wonder why I wonder._

* * *

“I am entirely in shock. You, Enjolras, a man of class and experience, a child of the wealthiest sides of all of Paris – don’t look at me, we all know you abandoned the richness of your past life when you decided to change our world like the rising sun in the East changes everything that lies in her wake – you never learned to play the piano?”

Grantaire’s question wasn’t careful; he followed it with a small laugh, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe it. His fingers – long and slim, perpetually stained by coal and the faintest hints of writing ink these days, or any days Enjolras remembered – were splayed across the ivory of the piano keys, not pressing down. He merely lingered there, like a ghost, a predator in waiting that hungered for his reply.

Enjolras took a breath and turned a page in the book he was reading, trying to keep his disdain in place. He sat in the armchair he had claimed as his, opposing both a window and Grantaire’s beloved chaise; the cot was tucked away to the side, usually covered by a thick woollen blanket.

The words of his book seemed to blur in front of his eyes. He blinked. He answered.

“My parents made me study the violin.” His voice was lofty, but a little raspy – not from the sickness, mind. Since they had arrived in chateau Grantaire about two weeks ago he had barely left the premises of the household, only twice taking a stroll through the marketplace, marvelling at the small houses and delicate old people in the streets. The scent of nature clung to everything, here. It was a stark contrast to the busy, boisterous, loud and dirty streets of Paris, and despite respectfully enjoying this side of the landscape, if he was really true to himself, Enjolras found himself missing his small flat near the Sorbonne.

“The violin!” Grantaire cried out, and his fingers played a few notes, all of them only in loosely connection to on another. His smile was wide, broad like pale sunlight; it transformed his haggard, pale, unshaven face in something else, and Enjolras didn’t know what it was supposed to mean. His head was filled with jumbled thoughts, all of which seemed to circulate around a topic like a swarm of wayward moths attracted by a lone flame. He ignored them valiantly.

“We could play together, you and me, one of these endless days,” Grantaire continued. He kept playing; the jumbled tones turning into a melody in minor key, slow and mournful, stretching out between them. Enjolras idly wondered if it was possible to capture one of these tones in his hand, to keep it with him forever. He wondered if the thought alone was inane, a sign of the days catching up with him.

“Perhaps, one day,” he echoed, nodding, and threw himself back into the book in front of him, burying his jumbled thoughts below words of revolution.

* * *

_Combeferre, Courfeyrac,_

_Have you settled into the new life yet? I wonder what you do each and every day. Do you read, or do you discuss philosophy with Mademoiselle Isabelle? Do you sing in the evenings when the sun goes down, remembering our nights at the Musain and all our friends, waiting impatiently to meet again? I wish you safety, from the deepest core of my heart. Truly, if anyone deserves the happiness of the countryside life, it is the two of you, together._

_I live, steadily, but I miss you deeply. Not only you; Paris, too. The city is deeply ingrained in me – my very core, my being, my centre, as you, Combeferre, would say – and I miss it more than I can say. Tell me, my friends, I must know: Who will help the people on the streets in our absence? Who will keep them safe and give them a reason to fight while we are so far away? Who, if not us, can bring in a new life, a new century without kings or sacrifices? I wonder. It keeps me up at night, but I cannot change it from this dreadful place in the valleys._

* * *

“It’s not the worst place to be stuck in,” Grantaire said one day, setting his canvas aside.

Enjolras could only hum, quietly. He felt a strange tug at his heart – it was hard to describe. Maybe it was loneliness, the desire to see his friends again. In all his years in or outside of Paris, Enjolras had rarely been entirely without Combeferre and Courfeyrac; they had grown up together in the outskirts of Paris, just a group of three displaced children from good families, finding comfort in one another before they even know what comfort meant. Now Enjolras had to fend for himself. It wasn’t as hard as he had expected at first, with Grantaire his sole companion, but he still realized how much he was telling his closest friends on a daily notion. Now things were different, and letters were all he had. He cherished them, yes, but they weren’t the same.

Grantaire, however – Grantaire was at his best behaviour. He hadn’t had anything stronger than wine in weeks, and he still appeared as alert, as verbose at ever. He made them breakfast and dinner each day, mostly consisting of simple meat and fresh bread since he, too, wasn’t an experienced cook; it was humble, but it was nourishing, and the quality of the food he brought in was beyond good. Enjolras had to admit that he had rarely eaten as regularly as he did now, under Grantaire’s oddly watchful eye.

They spent most of their days apart, Enjolras in his bedroom with a book or two found in the corners of the library, Grantaire himself in front of a canvas, pouring himself onto the white linen. When the sun was about to go down they usually met in the salon to share a bottle of wine, speaking quietly about their day. Enjolras spoke of what he read, what he considered, about the rhetoric of the revolution that awaited them back in Paris. Grantaire, with a softer voice, spoke of paint and mythology, telling Enjolras stories he picked from the top of his head, completely randomly coming up with a tale or two to stun the blonde leader into silence.

It was a fragile truce between them, but it was as good as it got, for the time being.

* * *

_Friends,_

_Ah, where to start? Grantaire made me walk with him today. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, and certainly not what I expected from a walk with him. He took me to the brook behind the flax fields that start right after the house; it made us leave the village, and with it any kind of civilization, behind before I even had the opportunity to explore it too closely. Sometimes I feel cooped up in these walls already. I know that outside the world is still relentless, that the people of Paris are still in the streets, suffering each and every day we are not there to help them step away them from their position in the shadows. But I sit here, outside in the_ Linum _fields, and I drink cheap wine in the sunlight, and it feels as if everything is joyous and good, but it isn’t._

_The thought made me angry, there, and almost irrationally so; I tried to explain myself, but it was hard, nigh, it was impossible. I fear I made my voice rise, and lost my temper. Grantaire, however, did not let me rile him up with my fury. He took my anger in stride, not even flinching away, like he was used to being treated like this._

_For some reason this made me even angrier. I didn’t know what to say; Later, we walked back in silence._

* * *

Enjolras slept fitfully, that night. His blankets seemed too heavy, too suffocating, trying to keep him wrapped up in a dangerous, toxic embrace, holding him down like the vicious monsters of Grantaire’s endless mythologies. He ultimately woke with a start, tossed the pillow aside and bit down on the scream of fury that threatened to escape his lungs.

Through the gap in the wooden door of his bedroom he could see the faint glow of a candle still burning.

Enjolras groaned and sat up, tied his hair back with almost-trembling hands. His mouth was dry from the nightmare that was just barely giving up its hold on him; he needed water. His bare feet padded across the wooden floors, mindful of the creaking step just in front of the door jamb that separated his room from the main corridor. He stepped outside gingerly, heading for the kitchen where Grantaire kept the drinking water in a cast-iron bucket.

He didn’t expect the other man to be up; in fact he didn’t expect much from Grantaire, but even less so after yesterday’s disagreement in the pale blue flaxen fields behind the house. Now, in the eerily freckled light of the moon, Enjolras felt strangely sorry for his overreaction – Grantaire hadn’t been anything but cordial to him since their shared arrival, and he thanked him by throwing a tantrum like an ill-behaved child, complete with throwing a bottle of wine aside so that it splintered in the grass. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, like the wine he’d downed before the eruption of his anger. Maybe an apology would be deemed necessary, if he could find it in the light of day.

He didn’t have time until then.

Grantaire sat at the kitchen table, his bleak face painted in the weak yellowing gleam of a dying candle. His fingers moved mechanically across the paper in front of him, a raspy _scritch scritch scritch_ of charcoal on parchment that filled the otherwise silent room. He didn’t look up at first, only slowly lifted his eyes from the artwork in front of him as a shadow fell across it. His eyes were resting on Enjolras’ own, quietly.

“Shouldn’t you have retired to your bed long ago?” Enjolras asked thickly. It came out entirely wrong, and Enjolras cursed himself for it immediately. Truly, he had in in himself to be civil, had it in himself to be gentle – the night forbade the rage the wide-open day had made so easily available.

But Grantaire only smiled, lopsided and tired, the shadows in his face lengthening to a grimace of an emotion Enjolras couldn’t place. “There is no rest for some of us, oh valiant leader of the revolution. Alas, we must fight, truly, in every waking hour, day or night all bleeding together into one. Some fight with the demons another casts at us, and some fight with their own.”

He had lowered the piece of charcoal in his hand. His fingers were stained grey, and one long smudge remained even on his chin, no doubt where he had propped up his head to think before. Enjolras tried to peer at the paper on the table, but Grantaire moved it away from him. His eyes never left Enjolras’.

“I came to apologize.”

“You came to drink,” Grantaire corrected, but his face softened a little, and he lowered his eyes. The shadows caught on his lashes like ghosts, fanning out and cloaking him in grey and sable. “But then again, one is like the other in the in-between hours of the night. You must know I can never stay angry at you; your revolutionary fervour burns away any traces of doubt a man could harbour. Ultimately, you are fire. I am merely charcoal.”

Enjolras sat down next to him, at those words, letting him return to his sketches and taking his mug for a swig of drink. He was surprised to find nothing but water in the battered tin jug.

The silence between them stretched out, but not uncomfortably so. The night went on, and Enjolras and Grantaire sat unmoving until the candles finally died out between them, and they went back to their beds.

* * *

_My friends,_

_You will be pleased to hear that I made my amends after our recent bout of… disagreement. For the first time in many days I am glad that I am not able to see your faces – I can imagine them so clearly. You, Courfeyrac, grinning at me in triumph, and you, Combeferre, telling me that you knew it all along. What friends you are that I can hear you even with you being so far away from my side! Never change, my brothers. Never change._

_Grantaire did not hold my anger against me, but I allowed him to read me from his inane novels by ways of apology nonetheless. He was so pleased, maybe even ecstatic, and picked the worst romance he could find in the collection of his family, only to make me desperate! I could hear the laughter in his voice all through the pages, but I persisted valiantly, and did not even start a scathing discussion while he was reading. Ultimately he had mercy on my agonized soul and stopped, instead picking a collection of Greek myths instead. They were much easier to stomach. I find he has a nice reading voice._

_We fall into place here, slowly but steadily. He does not try to keep me in – in fact, he said that ‘a free spirit needs to roam’ – but I find it much more interesting to read with him around now. Sometimes he laughs at the books he finds in his parent’s library and reads me passages of ramblings and filth that only make me laugh. His presence does not feel annoying anymore; in fact I miss him when he is out for longer. I decided to join him on his last march to the bakery down the market street, and the baker smiled as if she knew a secret I didn’t. Her bread is good, way better than what we have in Paris. Ah, I might miss it when we return._

_I do not know where I was going with this. I want you to know that I am as safe as I could be, and that Grantaire – and that Grantaire and me might be growing closer than before. A strange triumph I did not expect, but I delight in nevertheless._

* * *

“Humour me,” Grantaire said a few days later when darkness had long engulfed the house, his voice keen and curious all at once. He was stretched out on his chaise once more, but his book was long forgotten, collecting dust on the floor next to him. His eyes darted between Enjolras and the piano, back and forth, back and forth.

Enjolras let out a breath.

“Teach me, then,” he said, his voice soft in the half-dark of the room. The candles were slowly dying, puddles of tallow with barely-visible wicks swimming in their centre. It was close to night-time, and yet Grantaire appeared undisturbed.

They stood and approached the instrument; Enjolras sat down gingerly. The piano seat was uncomfortable – the wood dug into Enjolras’ tailbone from below the badly-cushioned leather, and the smell of mould coming from it was almost too heady to be ignored entirely. But Grantaire was behind him, suddenly, heavy and warm and real, and he smiled across his shoulder like a man that had received a blessing that turned his life around. He appeared… happy. It was too much to stay focused on everything negative.

“A believer such as me, teaching the god of music the simplicity of worldly melodies.” Grantaire laughed softly; the puff of air moved the hair next to Enjolras ear. “Very well. I shall be your teacher for the night. Focus, student.”

His fingertips rested on Enjolras’ own, heavy weights of sinew and bone, anchoring him between his skin and the ivory keys underneath. His hands moved slowly, fingers wrapped around Enjolras’ own, moving his like a puppeteer would his prized possession. The first low note resounded in the study, and Enjolras listened intently. It seemed sad, forlorn and alone. He longed to soothe it.

More notes followed, in the same, slow pattern; soon, however, a melody begun to rise. The tones followed one another with more clarity, with a clear pattern emerging, and behind him Grantaire hummed, mapping out the rhythm with taps of his foot on the hardwood.

Enjolras played, with his help, recognizing the notes despite his unfamiliarity with the piano itself. He smiled, a little, and leaned into Grantaire’s side. They missed a note at that, but didn’t mention it. Together they kept playing into the night, close to one another, like a single beating heart.

* * *

_Combeferre, Courfeyrac,_

_I feel, for the first time, unearthed, unrooted from something else than the Cause. There is something I need to tell you, need to ask you, but I do not know how. For the first time in my life – really, the first time in all the years I’ve been in this world – words seem to fail me. There are too many questions and no answers I can grasp. What does this feeling mean? What does it entail? I long for your support, but I am aware you are far away and cannot help me with this._

_It is… difficult, beyond my wildest imagination._

* * *

What did it mean? The feeling gnawed at Enjolras, a biting, passionate feeling on unease, of strangeness. He found himself watching Grantaire much more than before – the movement of his hand, yes, but also the movement of his lips, red against his pale skin, warm where Enjolras felt cold in the heady light of day. Part of him longed for touch, the brush of hands, the gentle feeling of a hand in his own. His mind was reeling; he couldn’t stop the feelings washing over him, again and again, unbidden and wild.

Oh, he longed. He longed deeply. The feeling was altogether new and as scary as it was exciting.

It went on and on. Every day turned into the sweetest torture – roiling passionate and wild in his heart, but also foreign, forlorn to his very soul. They read together, played the piano together. They touched much more, the fear of the sickness now forgotten, far away from the busy streets of Paris. Enjolras found himself leaning into Grantaire at every opportunity, breathing in his scent of coal and sunshine.

If Grantaire noticed the new-found tactility, he kept the revelations to himself. They left the house together regularly now; with the worst fear of the sickness behind them they found themselves walking the marketplace, greeting the neighbours. Sometime Enjolras could hear sharp whispers behind his back, found himself stiffen against the disdain he heard in those tones. He tried not to dwell on it, but it seemed difficult. This world surely had much to learn.

They shared a piece of sweet bread on the sun-kissed stones of the well near the house – now unboarded – when the guardsmen approached the market street. Within seconds Grantaire was on his feet, as was Enjolras; the old twinge of fear slammed into his very core from the sight alone. His hands shot to his belt, only to find no gun or knife there. Defenceless, however, he was not; he bared his teeth.

The guards did not even offer them a second glance, and Enjolras swiftly realized they hadn’t come for them. Three of them, on horseback, lined up on the marketplace, around an old peddler he had seen before, just this morning. Enjolras watched as windowpanes opened left and right, people pushing their heads out of the openings, listening to what was going on in their otherwise quiet streets.

“Citizen!” one of the guardsmen bellowed at the older man. The word sounded like a lie, coming from him, but Enjolras kept his mouth shut. “You hail from the city of Paris, by decree of the king Louis-Philippe. Tell us, what have you seen?”

“Ah!” the man cried. He looked like a travelling merchant; this morning he had come into town on horseback, but the animal was now safely tucked away at the inn. “You will be pleased to hear what I have seen. The sickness has passed like an ailing storm. We all are free to return to our homes in beautiful Paris. Work is waiting for us! Long live the city!”

Enjolras felt a strange, leaden weight in his stomach at those words. Only weeks ago he would have been overjoyed; now he felt like he had swallowed ash. His eyes widened and sought Grantaire’s. The other took a bite from his bread, chewing thoughtfully, not looking at him.

They could return to Paris. Return to Paris, and forget all that had transpired here in the countryside? Return to Paris, and, perhaps, give up everything that had grown tenderly between him and Grantaire, or was still growing?

No, he couldn’t do it. It lingered in his head all day, after they returned to the house, after they read in the salon. Grantaire appeared distracted, worried even. He barely touched his wine.

“We can get a carriage in the morning,” he finally said when the silence grew too heavy. Enjolras found himself agreeing, despite the pain it caused his very core. He did not want to leave – not like _this_. He wasn’t….

He wasn’t ready.

One more night, then, he told himself as the candles slowly burned down. None of them seemed willing to head for their cots; Grantaire read quietly, with his red red mouth moving but no sound coming out. Enjolras wanted to soothe him, to settle in next to him, to plead for him to read him another line of his stories about Hadrian and Antinous , or Achilles and Patroclus.

Finally, when it was beyond them to stay on their feet any longer, they retired; Grantaire remained at his bedroom door with a candle, his unruly nightshirt exposing a pale collarbone. They said goodnight in quiet whispers, and Enjolras closed the door, laid down on his bed.

And waited.

And waited.

Dawn would not come, and neither would sleep. He tossed and turned. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Grantaire; any time he let his mind wander he felt the warmth of his hand in his, saw the exposed line of his milky throat, the smile, the woeful smile of sadness pulling at his lips.

Enjolras stood, and left for the salon.

He found Grantaire on his cot, asleep; the line of worry that had been in between his brows all day had smoothened out, softened into nothingness. He looked innocent and gentle, not rowdy and effusive like he did in the light of day. Enjolras touched his hair, and then followed the desire that pulled him forward like a ghost in the night.

His lips touched Grantaire’s own, and he closed his eyes.

When he opened them again Grantaire was staring back at him, eyes wide and in wonder.

“I am dreaming,” he whispered, his voice barely above the breath that fanned out across Enjolras’ face. “And if I am, I do not want to wake. Cast me into Morpheus’ spell and let me remain in the dens back in Paris where I undoubtedly never left, or let me sleep off my fever dream here, if you may – “

“You are not dreaming,” Enjolras said, frowning despite the smile that threatened to pull at his lips. He reached out, pale fingers touching the soot-black hair in front of him, feeling the warmth of the skin lingering underneath like a promise barely out of reach. “You are not dreaming. This is reality.”

He leaned in once more; their lips touched as Grantaire returned the movement towards him, in the faintest of connections, and Enjolras could not feel more complete.

* * *

_My friends,_

_You do not need to worry; I understand my last letter was confusing, and I apologize. There is indeed news, but I will give them to you in person, back in Paris, when we arrive tomorrow. Indeed, I do not expect this letter to even find you at your residence. Still, I had to send it, a finality to our correspondence._

_Just one thing for now: I have figured it all out. Everything seems much clearer now._

_We will see you soon, together, and send our love._

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that, while this story is set during a very real historic pandemic (the flu, which was a serious threat in the 1800s), nobody is going to actually get sick during the course of the story. Also, nobody dies. The pandemic is responsible for their quarantine-situation, but plays a very little role in the actual story. 
> 
> Be safe, everyone! ♥


End file.
